A Pathetic Attempt of South Guardian Angel

05/04/26

Late start, 11:36am. Mean looking clouds floated high above, some especially dark, threatening rain. Driving up the steep curves of the KTR, I was overcome with a nagging feeling that the day would not work out the way it was supposed to. With a late start, hardly any prep and very little research on the route, I had successfully combined the prime ingredients for a day of complete failure. I could feel it in my bones, but I kept on driving anyway. 

And I pulled into the parking lot for the Wildcat Canyon Trailhead and I grabbed my pack and set off down the trail, the skies gray, the wind sharp, the air filled with the vibrations of impending failure. My mind wasn't in it to win it. I wasn't confident in the slightest. But I figured I might as well try. It was the least I could do.

And what was it that I was gonna try? Good ol' South Guardian Angel. I've been meaning to check this one out ever since I first laid eyes on it while driving up the KTR. I got an even better view of it when I climbed North Guardian back in March, a more technically challenging mountain that has a significantly easier approach. I saw South Guardian in the distance. Saw its beautiful northeast ridge, a true "sidewalk in the sky." An exquisite mountain, absolutely stunning. I knew I had to check it out. Too bad I didn't look too hard at the approach though. If I did, I might have had second thoughts...

First view of South Guardian

I walked along the trail, making a right towards the Northgate Peaks Overlook. Miles and smiles, smiles and miles. I'd done this section of trail so many times I didn't even notice the time passing, the clouds shifting overhead, the dark patches moving this way and that. Simply hikin' in cruise control. Yessiree Bob. Legs moving, feet shuffling, mind wandering. That was the name of the game.

And then I made it to the overlook and hit up the ol' use trail, wandering to the east, approaching a low saddle of sorts between North Guardian and this little knob of reddish sandstone. Once past the saddle I was gifted with my first view of South Guardian, the thing still long ways off. Alright. Easy part done. Now the real trekkin' could begin.

Somewhere horribly off route...

I'd imagined there would be a pretty well-worn use trail snaking its way down into the Left Fork of North Creek. If not, then at least a handful of cairns here and there. Well, this was not the case. No trail, no cairns. I don't know if I'm just bad at hide and seek, or maybe I'm just a terrible observer, or perhaps I lack the patience, or maybe it was just destiny, I don't know. Whatever the case, I couldn't find a trace of a use trail or a single dang cairn for the life of me, so I kinda just wandered down the steep slickrock terrain with a vague understanding to move slightly east the farther I descended. 

Of course, this did not work. I'd get down into cliffy and brushy terrain, the route obviously incorrect, and I'd stand around, put my arms on my hips, say "yep" and then turn around and hike back up. I did this a couple of times, each one sucking away my morale like a data center does water in a desert. Things were not looking good.

But alas! Finally, finally, I managed to find a cairn, and then—behold—another cairn, and then, ahh yes, a faint use trail, hallelujah. Just when things were getting sour, salvation arrived in the form of little stacks of rocks and dusty footprints.

But then the thing petered out almost immediately and I was back to sloggin' it down through the cliffs, not even close to the bottom of the Left Fork, South Guardian far, far away. It was after 1:30pm. I sat down, ate a PB&J, looked at the views, gazed at the heavens, and accepted my defeat. Had to call it. Yup. This approach got the best of me. 'Twas a mighty pathetic attempt to be sure. Gonna have to come back some day and try it for real. Earlier start, more research, a stronger mindset. 

The view from where I turned around

South Guardian...I'll come back one day...

So, now what? Had to do something. Couldn't wallow in the juices of my own self-loathing on the side of the canyon all day long. Had to do something. Why not try another peak that had eluded me, one that's been at the back of my mind ever since I failed to reach its summit over a month ago. I'm talkin' about good ol' Little Northgate Peak of course, the little nubbin that shut me down after my exciting ascent of North Guardian back on March 30th. Had to give it another go. And so I stood up, brushed the dust off my seat, took one last look around, and then began the slow ascent through confusing terrain back to the saddle. 

East Northgate (left), Little Northgate (right)

After an uneventful slog through brush and steep slickrock, I finally made it back to the saddle, the clouds still churning up above, the wind picking up, the sky teasing rain. East Northgate rose ahead, Little Northgate flanking its eastern side. I waved at them. Pointed at Little Northgate. I'm comin' for you Little Northgate. Ain't nothin' gonna stop me now. 

And I descended a mellow slickrock bowl into a narrow wash/gully/whatever-you-call-it, the thing filled with patches of brown, murky water. And I crossed the gully and began hikin' up to Little Northgate's southern ridge, the going slightly brushy, slightly loose, nothin' too crazy.  

Ascending out of the gully, false summit left

Looking back at North Guardian, quite imposing from this angle

Little Northgate Summit

Goin' up and up, I eventually gained the southern ridge, North Guardian rising off to the west, its northeast side lookin' quite unclimbable from this angle. I turned my gaze back to the ridge at hand and proceeded on what turned out to be a steep, somewhat loose slog the rest of the way to Little Northgate's pointy summit. I decided to stay east of the ridge, avoiding exceptionally loose and exposed nonsense on the western side. Perhaps there's an easier route on the western side a bit farther down, but I didn't look and didn't care. Lingering to the east worked out just fine.

After a bit, I cut to the west a little ways, now walking pretty much dead center on the ridge, following it through sandy and brushy terrain to the summit. Once there, I sat down, ate another PB&J, contemplated whether or not it was gonna rain, and stared at the views to the southwest, South Guardian taunting me in the distance. Taunting? Nah. It was standing completely indifferent to my existence, not a care in the world. I pointed at it. Said I'd be back one day. It didn't listen. How could it? It don't got no ears. 

East(ish)

Southwest

East Northgate from Little Northgate

Sitting there on the summit, I figured it was gonna rain. I waited one minute, two minutes. The dark clouds softened. The sky loosened up. The heavens became wispy and silky, the atmosphere the color of tin. And then little splotches of blue popped up and I knew, then and there, that it definitely wasn't gonna rain. Remind me to never become a meteorologist. I'd be far too wishy-washy. 

Satisfied with finally getting to visit Little Northgate, I guzzled down some water, took one last look around, and then retraced my steps off the mountain. I hopped back down the ridge, jumped into the gully, moseyed on through the slickrock bowl, followed a use trail to the Northgate Peaks Overlook, hit the main trail, zoomed on out there, the skies gentle, the weather excellent, the day a mixture of success and failure.

Hikin' up the slickrock bowl, East Northgate right

Back on the trail

In the car, driving down the road. I was bored. Felt like I had to do more, like I had to redeem myself in some way. Plus I couldn't let this fantastic weather go to waste. So I decided to check out a few minor peaks on the way back home, little nubbins that sit just off the road, all of them short little jaunts. Spendlove Knoll, an old, brush-encrusted cinder cone was the first of these little nubbins that I encountered while driving down the KTR. I pulled off the side of the road, chugged more water, and then began a short and brushy walk to the summit.

Spendlove Knoll

A tad brushy

There was no route, no use trail. No need. The thing was real short. Just followed animal trails through the brush, some a little more well-defined than others. The brush lessened near the summit, the views surprisingly good. A small stack of rocks and a USGS benchmark marked the highpoint. No register, no sign of any recent human visitation. I spent roughly 2 minutes up there, spinning around, absorbing the scene. And then it was a brief bushwhack back to the car and off to the next little nubbin' of the day, the provisional "Bobbie Knoll."

Spendlove Knoll summit

South

Northeast

Sitting just northwest of Lambs Knoll, the unassuming "Bobbie Knoll" rises up out of the ground, a gentle, somewhat brushy mound of cinders and dirt that sees very little visitation. Really no reason to go up there, as I soon found out. I pulled into the parking lot for Lambs Knoll, got out of the car, and made a beeline towards the summit. I walked through some unoccupied campsites, weaved around some sage and brush and stuff, hit the gentle incline, and kinda just moseyed on up to the top. No register, no benchmark, just some old, broken glass that's been there for who knows how long. Not much of a view from Bobbie Knoll; the whole thing is covered in scraggily pinyon pines. 

Bobbie Knoll

Bobbie Knoll summit

Back in the parking lot, back down the road. My eyes scanned the horizon, moving to and fro, noting the various landmarks, trying to find just one more nubbin to explore. They finally settled on a formation known as "North Moqui," a precarious, jumbled mass of boulders and brush that caught my fancy for whatever strange reason. Perhaps I expected it to be like Moqui Peak. If it was anything like that, then I'd be in for one hell of a jaunt, however short it was. Curious to find out, I pulled off the side of the road and then eagerly began a short walk through the desert to the base of this most interesting lump of rocks and brush. 

Approaching North Moqui

While I was driving on the road, I spent a little time trying to figure out the best route to the summit. I saw a steep, rocky, brushy chute on the peak's northeast side that seemed to be the most viable option. So as I was walkin' through the desert, dodging cacti and juniper branches, the peak growing larger in view, it was this northeast chute I was aiming for, the thing lookin' like a tricky route for sure but entirely passable. At least, that's what I thought.

The brushy northeast chute

I entered a dry wash, climbed up out of it, and then started the uphill slog to the base of the northeast chute. Heading over, the thing looked steep, brushy, a bit precarious, definitely a tad more exciting than I had imagined. But imagination can only take you so far. Maybe it was actually pretty mellow. Only one way to find out. 

I began climbing up the chute, the initial section incredibly steep and loose. I used the ample brush inhabiting the chute to haul myself up, the going steep but nothing crazy. And then I encountered what turned out to be the "crux" of the route, a brief and interesting bout of steep class 3. I kinda just climbed straight up the thing, ducking under the bushes at the top, using them for support. Once past this section it was a steep, brief bushwhack the rest of the way to the summit.

Class 3 crux

Interesting rock formation

I reached the summit plateau, the thing covered in multiple stacks of boulders rising this way and that. I climbed up on top of one, immediately found it to be a false summit, the true summit rising just a bit to the south. I hopped down the thing, making my way towards the true summit. There were a few options available to reach the top, none of them particularly easy. I decided to approach it from the north, hopping up a tricky section that required some funky moves to gain the summit block. A little challenging for sure, but luckily it wasn't too exposed. 

North Moqui summit, I climbed up from the bottom left

The tricky section

Wow, what a peak. Easily my favorite of the day. Though it wasn't as insane as the slightly taller Moqui Peak to the south, it still offered plenty of excitement. Lots of brush. Lots of steep terrain. A wee bit of scrambling. Ample rock formations. Cool boulders. Cool views. I plopped down on the summit block, the thing nice and wide, the weather nice and and cool. Time for a break. I sat, I looked, I pondered, I gazed. That's all there was too it.

Looking towards Moqui Peak 

Tab Dome (left) South Guardian (right)

North, Lambs Knoll left

Southwest

Puffy clouds, the sky a layer of gray, a light breeze, the high desert sprawling before me, a peaceful scene, a good scene, a fantastic way to end the day. Didn't wanna leave though. That's how you know it's a good summit. It's always the ones that you wish you could linger on top of for days and days, watching the sunrise and sunset and everything in between, watching the colors shift, the shadows passing over everything. But one must always leave the mountain. That's just the way it goes. And so I retraced my steps back to the car, hopping down that tricky section on the summit block, entering the northeast chute, sliding down through brush and loose rock, down climbing the class 3 crux, exiting the chute, wandering through the desert. I got back to the car, covered in sweat and dirt and some lingering thorns and sticks and leaves that had hitched a ride on my person. Started 'er up. Drove on out of there, windows down, music in the air. 

Looking down the class 3 crux

Wandering through the high desert...

It was a weird day with weird emotions and weird sensations. Definitely my most pathetic attempt of a mountain, that's for sure. I suppose my main error was not really wanting to do it in the first place. Deep down, somewhere in the aortic valve or something, there's a desire to climb a mountain, or to do something challenging or something like that. There's a want. An urge. An aim. There's a need to complete an objective, and the need fuels the brain, and the brain tells the body what to do. I did not have the need that morning. My mind wasn't in it. Wasn't the right time. 

But there will be other times. Just gotta get out there and climb it when I feel like it's right. As for the other peaks of the day, I really don't ever see myself visiting them again, all except for North Moqui. That was a goodun. 

Lady Mountain

I found myself sitting in a rocking chair at the Zion Lodge way back on March 26th, absolutely nothing on my mind. Not too crowded, maintenance folks zippin' on by in electric carts, the big ol' cottonwood tree in the middle of the green lawn still looking the same as always. And as I sat there, rocking back and forth, I couldn't help but notice the gigantic lady towering in front of me. She rose an impressive 2,700ft into the air. She looked scary. Quite intimidating. I lacked the courage to introduce myself. So I just sat there and gave the occasional glance, far too timid to walk up and say hello. The closest I got was a brief jaunt on the Emerald Pools Trail. A little stroll, a mere wraparound. I looked up and saw the lady towering above everything, her presence all the more intimidating up close. I returned to the lodge, hopped on the shuttle, watched the lady through the window. She made me feel uneasy. Squeamish. As the shuttle rolled away, I was left with the feeling to never look at her again. She was simply too much for the eyes to handle. 

But that was a long time ago. I've gazed upon the lady many times since, most recently from my excursion to Observation Point. She's still as intimidating as ever. Still makes me squeamish. Still too much for the eyes to handle. But, slowly, gradually, over the course of many weeks and many a moment spent observing the lady from a distance and reading about her history, I managed to work up the chutzpah to finally introduce myself, to finally walk up to her, to stand so tiny and small and insignificant at the base of her sheer mass and look up and say "hello." And so, on March 3rd, the day after visiting Observation Point and all those other silly peaks, I finally, finally, finally made an attempt for the one, the only, the terrifically beautiful and invariably frightening, Lady Mountain.

The scramble begins

Man, what a mountain. This one's been on the list for quite some time now. I've always been averse to try it, mostly given the difficult route-finding, class 5 cruxes, and the absolutely disgusting amount of elevation gain required to reach the summit. Two thousand, six hundred and seventy-five feet in less than 2 miles. Yep. This thing certainly ain't no joke. 

There used to be a trail to to the summit. That's what I've been told. Steps, chains, and ladders led daring hikers up through near-vertical terrain from the canyon floor all the way to the tippity top, the views absolutely sublime. But apparently this trail was shut down in the 60's because of several fatalities and difficulties with maintaining it. And so, with chains and ladders long since removed, years and years of rain, wind and snow have been making quick work of erasing every trace of this crazy trail from existence. 

But despite the trail no longer being maintained by the park, the mountain ain't off-limits. Many a foolhardy traveler has made the trek to the summit using the remnants of the old trail, somehow finding a viable route up through the cliffs. Old, faded, disintegrating black and red and yellow arrows—as well as the occasional cairn—serve as indispensable beacons of guidance for those silly enough to make the trek to the summit. 

I had heavily researched the route, watched a couple of videos documenting the ascent, and had practiced my off-trail Zion scrambling for over a month to prepare for this mountain. It commanded discipline and respect. Had to take this one seriously; I knew this would be a tough route that required me to be on top of my game. By May 3rd I was as prepared as I could be. Plus I had just received my brand-new approach shoes in the mail, so you know I just had to try 'em out.

Moki Steps

I hopped on the shuttle, took it to the Lodge, walked straight to the restroom, destroyed the toilet, and then, now feeling light as a feather, floated on over to the Emerald Pools trail, Lady Mountain tall and formidable as ever. I crossed the bridge, made a left, and then followed the trail steeply to a little sign that I didn't care to read. Across from the sign was a steep little use trail. Oh boy. Here we go. I took a deep breath, said goodbye to the maintained trail and began the ascent to the top of Lady Mountain, knowing full well that the hiking would get more and more difficult with each passing step.

The trail was surprisingly well-trodden, and I followed it without difficulty all the way to the base of some scary lookin' cliffs. But I knew there was a class 3 route up through them, and a faded, yellow arrow pointed up and so I began the scramble, the first of many for the day. Ahh yes. Slow and steady, one step at a time...

And I moved up and up, biting off vert, the exposure growing, views finally starting to materialize all around me. I soon encountered some moki steps, scrambled up the things, turned around, looked at my progress. I was already a good 100ft up the mountain, the terrain steep and sheer, the exposure considerable. Some might find this first chunk a little scary. If that's the case I recommend turning around; it only gets worse the farther you go. 

But for the moment, things were pretty chill. Once above the cliffs, I followed a use trail as it zig-zagged up the mountain through hardy trees and prickly cacti, a little less well-trodden than the one below the cliffs but still pretty obvious. I kept my eyes sharp for arrows and other trail markers, following them as they led to the base of more cliffs. These were much steeper than those I'd just surpassed, the most difficult move right at the beginning of the climb. But I stayed slow and relaxed, climbing on all fours up through the sheerness of it all, following the arrows, using the old moki steps to my advantage, going up and up and up until finally encountering the first class 5 crux of the day.

Some tricky cliffs; ascend the chute on the left

The 1st class 5 crux

I sat in the shade, guzzled down some water. I was already drenched in sweat, the temperatures holding steady in the high 80's. I gazed upon the crux, excited to finally observe it in person. I didn't bring a rope with me, but I knew that this thing (as well as the other crux) could be climbed, up and down, without much difficulty. I was willing to give it a try; if it was too spicy for me to handle, I'd simply turn around and come back with a rope. My golden rule would be well applied here: I never climb up something that I know I can't climb down. And so, eager to try it out, I wandered over to the crux, a chimney of sorts with an awkward overhanging rock proving to be the most difficult obstacle. I took it nice and slow, the rock nice and grippy, the holds pretty dang good all things considered. I reached the top, looked back down. Yup. Not too bad. I could definitely climb back down that thing. And so I pressed on, climbing up through a narrow chute, across some exposed ledges to a long traverse along the eastern face of the mountain.

Walking along the east face

Ahh, what a traverse. A reprieve from the punishing uphill, it was nice to finally be walking on fairly level ground for the time being, the going mellow, the lodge far, far, below, the sounds of civilization growing softer and softer. I followed cairns and footprints across the east face, the route finding a little tricky. A few use trails snaked off in random directions; I made sure to place cairns marking the correct route for the way back. Very easy to get off route on that traverse. Gotta stay vigilant.

Eventually I encountered a few small rocks that blocked off the use trail I was following, indicating that I make a right and hike through some bushes and start the climb once again. Up and up, through bushes and thorns, I soon encountered the 2nd class 5 crux, this one far less exposed but much much more difficult to climb.

The 2nd, trickier class 5 crux

It ain't much to look at, but be warned: this thing is no joke. If I hadn't seen a video on how to climb down it (something that for whatever reason is significantly easier than climbing up it) I woulda turned around at this point. Downward facing, featureless slabs make this a real class 5 climb, the holds terrible, everything slippery. I made an awkward move with my leg and kinda just muscled my way up the thing. Certainly not the most graceful way of doing things, but it got the job done. I pressed on, following faded arrows and tiny cairns, moving through brush and dirt, up and up, biting off vert, a buffett of vert, enough vert to feed a starving village, up and up and up, scrambling up blocky, white steps, a stairway to heaven, the exposure appreciable, the summit growing closer with each step.

"Stairway to Heaven"

A particularly well-preserved arrow, the rest were barely visible

A tricky section; stay right

I eventually entered a gully of sorts, marking the entry/exit point with a cairn for my return. I hiked up the thing for a little ways, knowing that I'd have to make a left at some point. Soon enough, I saw what looked to be a viable option, and I quickly scrambled up out of the gully to a nice shady tree. I sat down, guzzled more water, appreciated the shade. I saw a yellow arrow down below, leading to a point somewhere in a sea of brush. These things ain't always reliable. Can't just blindly follow 'em. Gotta stay attentive. Find the path of least resistance. 

Entering the gully

Leaving the gully; I took a a break under the shady tree on the left

It was while I was sitting there in the shade and looking at this strange arrow down below that I heard a sharp screeching noice coming from farther up the mountain. I never heard it again. Hmm. Very strange. Perhaps I was just hearing things. I don't know. I shrugged it off and pressed forward, the route a little tricky to follow. 

For whatever reason, the route-finding in section from the gully to the summit proved to be the most difficult, the path not super obvious, several use trails snaking off in various directions, the arrows and cairns few and far between. I climbed up some class 3 stuff, moved through brush and loose rock, got turned around, climbed back down, started over. Ahh man. Lots of experimentation. I'd follow a use trail and then the thing would peter out into nothing. No footprints, not a damn thing. And so I'd retrace my steps back to the last cairn or arrow and start again, trying to find the most well-travelled path.

It was while I was experimenting with these routes when I heard the screeching noise again. Ok. Yup. That definitely wasn't in my head. That was real. And it was close. Damn. What could it be? Better not be a mountain lion. I ain't ready to see no mountain lion just yet. I lingered for a moment, waiting to hear the screech again. I heard nothing. Not a thing. Just the sound of the wind and my own labored breathing. Strange.

I pressed on regardless, my desire to reach the summit stronger than my apprehension of the mystery noise. I found the correct path, the thing covered with numerous footprints. Finally back on route, the rest of the way was pretty smooth, just a lot of zig-zagging up a mixture of loose rocks and steep slabs. 

And then I heard something in the bushes and I immediately went into early-human-caveman-adrenaline mode and crouched down and instantly pinpointed the location of the sound. Far away, a good 100ft off route, were two people scrambling up the steep grade through brush and stupidly loose rock. Ahh. Mystery solved.

I hollered at them, asked if they were ok. They seemed a little surprised. Weren't expecting to see anyone else all day. "Oh yeah, we're good" said one. "You must have heard my screams" said the other. "Man, you came at just the right time, we were just starting to lose morale" said the first one, starting to bust through the brush towards me. I asked if they were good on water and stuff and they said "yep." All they needed were directions. "Shoulda gone climber's right, but we went climber's left." Ahh. A simple mistake. Must've gotten turned around in the same spot I did. 

We met up, talked some more. They were still interested in summiting and so we kind of moved along as a group, although I walked a good 100ft in front of them. I pointed out some more tricky sections, weird turns, tight switchbacks, stuff like that. Soon the summit came into view. Close. Real close. Nearly there. Just had to keep going.

Lady Mountain summit

I reached a ridge, marking the spot with a cairn for the return. Several emotions were swimming through my body. Can't really describe how I felt; it was definitely a bit surreal. The hard part of the climb was over. Easy walkin' (well, comparatively easy walkin') from here on out. I was definitely gonna make it. Wow. After all this time, after all this worrying, after all this talk, after all this research, I was finally gonna make it. It was strange, walking along that ridge. Didn't feel real, like it was all a dream. I floated up the use trail the rest of the way to the summit, sat down, touched the metal marker. Hello Lady Mountain. It's nice to finally meet you. 

The views were amazing, simply amazing, rivaling those I'd seen on Mountain of the Sun back on March 16th. The canyon stretched out before me thousands of feet below, the shuttles lookin' like little caterpillars, the E-bikers like fleas. The East Temple rose in the distance, lofty and impressive. Looking in the opposite direction, up the canyon, I made out the tip of Angels Landing. Still haven't been up there yet. I've done all these summits and I still ain't done the most popular hike in the whole ding-dang park. Oh well. It really do be like that sometimes...

The two lost hikers met me at the summit. We chatted some more, exchanged stories. They didn't believe that this was my first time up the mountain. I said something like "ehh, I've got a lot of practice." And I sat there like a dweeb and pointed out every summit in view that I'd climbed, starting with Mountain of the Sun and then working north. 

And we continued talking and I opened the register and it was full of churlish, insipid, raunchy and all-around hilarious entries and snippets and stories. Lots of people spending the night. Lots of butt sweat. Lots of drawings and sketches. Lots of tales of trials and tribulations, of hardship and adversity, of consuming substances and naughty naughty things that are better left unsaid. I chuckled at a few of these entries, my eyes passing over the pages. And then it was time to go and I said goodbye to the lost hikers and wished them safe travels on the descent. I stood up, took one last look, and then set off down the mountain. 

Headin' back, Jacob Canyon below

Heading back down the confusing section...

I found my cairn and immediately began the descent, careful not to miss any turns. I moved smooth and quick, gliding down the use trail and numerous zig-zags no problem, the route burned into my mind, no mistakes this time. Down, down, down, the descent a good ol' fashioned knee-killer, the clouds passing overhead, the temps still nice and toasty, just me, the rocks, and the hellish grade. Oh yeah. Good times, good times.

Don't go down the gully. Stay high and left

Some class 3

I reached the shady tree, climbed back down into the gully, nearly overshot the exit, barely noticing the cairn until the last moment. Gotta keep the eyes peeled. Can't make no mistakes on this mountain. No sirree bob. And I continued along, my eyes focused on the route, following cairns and arrows and footprints. And I skirted down the slabs and hopped down the steps and before I knew it I was back at the tricky class 5 crux, the thing a little intimidating from above. But no matter. I was prepared. I'd researched the route. I knew how to descend this crux. I walked down, facing out, jammed my body in the crack, stuck my foot out onto the right wall, found the foothold, and gently lowered myself down. Easy peasy. 

Looking down the tricky class 5 crux

And then I traversed across the east face again, my knees grateful for the gentle grade. I stopped far too often to take pictures of the cactus flowers, but they were just so darn beautiful I couldn't help myself. Something must've been in the air that afternoon 'cause the lighting on the petals was something absolutely incredible. 

And then I found myself atop the other class 5 crux, this one much more exposed. I was slow and careful on the descent, four points of contact at all times, gently, delicately, tenderly making my way down. Once past this obstacle, there were only a couple more tricky sections left. I was in the home stretch. Nearly there, nearly there...

Looking down the other class 5 crux

And I descended through the cliffs and followed the arrows and cairns and zig-zagged through rocks and dirt and soon I was atop the first cliff band I'd climbed earlier in the day. Wow. Almost done. And I turned around and faced the rock and carefully climbed down the moki steps, the things a bit exposed but the holds phenomenal. And I turned back around and lowered myself down the class 3 stuff to the base of the cliffs, following the use trail back to the sign I didn't care to read. To this day I still don't know what it says. I took a glance at it and walked right on by, continuing along the well-maintained trail back to the bridge. 

A view from the Emerald Pools Trail

Lady Mountain

Lots of people out and about. Quite crowded. Had to wait for the bridge to clear up. And as soon as I walked across I snapped one final photo of Lady Mountain and then I kinda just stood there like an idiot and took a good long look. Couldn't believe that I'd actually climbed the thing. Didn't seem real. Two hours and forty-five minutes was all it took, but it felt much longer. And I stood and stared, and I traced the route with my eyes, and I followed it all the way to the tippity-top, and I still couldn't believe that I'd done it. But I had made it. I'd said hello. I'd made acquaintance with the lady. She still scared me, still intimidated me, but at least she was familiar now. I shrugged, made a peace sign, and then walked over to the lodge, the day finished, the hike complete. 

Wow, what a hike. It certainly ain't for beginners, that's for sure. Though I didn't use a rope, I can definitely see why one is recommended. The approach shoes helped a lot, but they weren't the only reason why I made a successful summit. Preparation, discipline, and knowing my limits were absolutely key. This is a difficult route. It requires technical ability, extreme focus, route-finding skills and a stomach for exposure. I don't recommend this route for the casual hiker. If you do decide to check it out, please come prepared. This is not a place to mess around and find out.